[debut]

[brightyoungreporter]

Wearing a brand new pair of headphones around his neck, hot living blood pumping through him, Daniel feels fucking great. Talking to Louis remains an exercise in fond futility, buoyed by the cool trick of being able to do it with his mind. But the fondness sticks in his chest even as he scowls at the new headphones, somewhat irritated at the lack of a cord. He’s already got vampire bluetooth in his head; would the security of being able to plug something into something else be so much to ask?

It’s a habit of Armand’s, to keep something nice, and knowing that’s why he’s doing it doesn’t ease any of the irritation. Remembering Armand strolling back in from his meal in a pair of, as the kids are calling it, cunty sunglasses, only to find the tables have fucking turned?

That makes him feel better.

He tosses the glasses into the same river he dumped the body, about half a mile away. The night’s plenty young, and now that he’s been spited with the gift of renewed mobility, Daniel intends to explore the city.

There’s a dive bar in the warehouse district, he’d read, that offers an opportunity to people watch. Feels like old times, or it would if he could actually find it. “Seems like an internal compass should come standard,” he calls up into the night, just in case his maker is skulking around on a conveniently placed catwalk.

…wait.

He’s really fucking lost.

It’s not a question of direction, it’s a question of location. It’s a question of time and fucking space, because this is a different city. He can hear the ocean; it’s got to be a different state, a different country.

“Louis? Hey, Louis de Pointe du Lac?” Nothing. He’s not sure he’s even doing it right.

He grits his teeth. “Armand?”

By the time Daniel finds himself staring at an unfamiliar coast from an unfamiliar boardwalk, he’s become increasingly convinced something is deeply fucking amiss.

He pulls off the sunglasses for a better look, regardless of whether that’s applicable anymore. A pleasant summer night, a few people here and there, their thoughts containing the usual patter and rhythms.

“Fucking great,” he says. “That’s fucking great. Armand, if this is some kind of test, I’m. I’m fucking telling on you.”

Ah, that’s him. The great Vampire Daniel Molloy.

Comments

[myfavoritedream]

There was some guy ranting to himself on the boardwalk. Not exactly a strange sight. Old men ranted to themselves all the time, especially this time of night.

Restless, I'd slipped out of the house to take a walk, crossing the short distance from the house to the boardwalk, still hobbling slightly on a cane. Might be for a good long while.

I'd taken up residence on a bench and pulled out the vape I'd reluctantly traded my usual joints for. Cleaner, less maintenance, but something about sucking on a little plastic pen still felt fake or something.

But now there was an old man ranting to himself to occupy my attention. Pen lighting up at the end as I took a hit from it, I leaned back, one arm flung casually across the back of the bench.

"Who the fuck is Armand?"